Persona 3: Burn Your Dread
by BarryBurt0n
Summary: A sequel to my novelization Persona: Be Your True Mind. It is not a typical, cut-and-dried novelization of Persona 3. This story includes several additions to the base game of FES, including the additive of Naoya Todo, the main character of Persona: Be Your True Mind, as part of the main cast of characters. Done in tandem with Persona 2: Your Innocent Sin. Enjoy.


_Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or any content from the Megami Tensei series as a whole. I do not claim to own anything. All contents' right belong to their respectful owners. Once again, I do not claim to own anything._

Well, this is incredibly redundant. A novelization of Persona 3:FES, entitled Persona 3: Burn Your Dread. Okay, before I get to slinging my spiel, it is imperative that you read Persona: Be Your True Mind, people may just think I'm plugging my own shit in these stories, but no joke, this novelization is just as much as a sequel to that story, the novelization of Persona 1, as its companion, Persona 2: Your Innocent Sin. If for some reason you are not reading this and P2: Your Innocent Sin in tandem, it is not required reading for this story, but Persona: Be Your True Mind is. Why? The main character that is commonly known as Naoya Todo, my version of him in my novelization, is a recurring/borderline main character in this story. This is a sequel not a standalone fic. There will be references you don't get, chances are spoilers will be dropped. Things from that story will be carried over into this one. If you don't care about all those things listed and are just interested in the ride, well don't say I didn't warn you. Also note if you do decide to read P: BYTM that the first few chapters are nowhere near the quality of the rest of the story or the current projects. First project on the site, kind of first official endeavor in a long form self-assignment, so somewhat amateurish for those initial chapters, but the fic gets more refined and ultimately much better quality as it progresses. So just bare with if it you can, please.

Things to address about this story, it's not going to be a clean-cut carbon copy of Persona 3. That should be blatant considering the inclusion of Naoya Todo. There are innumerous surprises inside and I hope you enjoy them. Things will be different. New things will occur. Who knows what is coming? Well, I do, but you guys will eventually. Also in regards to Social Links, like most novelizations of P3, I am going to be maxing them all out. I shit you not I took out grid paper and planned the whole game year of Persona 3 for Social Link schedules. As for the way the schedule works, I don't care about the actual in-game character schedules or stat requirements, except Akinari's. This is a story, not a time-management gameplay element. Also, as much as it goes against my better judgment, each meeting with a Social Link character will denote a rank up, meaning only ten meet ups per character, but they aren't going to be all in a row. Those ten meets up for the majority of the S. Links are fairly spread out. I did that to ensure equal leveling. Of course, if there are only ten meet ups for the whole calendar year, I'm going to be done with the S. Links about halfway through the game, with only two being uncompleted by December in the game. Why did I do this, so I can use the additional half of the game to do what I the author desire. The new content is gonna be rocking throughout, but that later half of the game with all that free time and space is my carte blanche.

I'm not going to ramble much longer. Okay, P3 MC's name is Minato Arisato, and we'll be following his perspective in first person. Why not Makoto Yuki? Well, because I'm more used to the name Minato Arisato. I planned this story long before the P3 Movies and even the P4 Anime, and the only name we had at the time was Minato Arisato. Also, Persona Q backs me up on this, although it's an inconsistency. I hope people seriously don't take issue over a name. Plus I used the name of the P1 MC as it was in the manga adaptation of P1 so why can't I use the P3 MC's name from the P3 manga adaptation. Gotta be consistent, you know. Also we are going to dwell into the momentary views of other characters for those specific scenes within the game that do not have Minato present, mostly in the beginning and the characters solo revelations. 95% of the novelization is in Minato's point of view, technically it's not first person omniscience. Italicized sentences are thoughts though in this stories case that's kind of irrelevant.

Now, this and Persona 2: Your Innocent Sin are being done in tandem, so if you are interest in reading both, you'll want to know the schedule of uploads. I'm sorry if you are reading both stories and find the two author notes repeat. Persona 3: Burn Your Dread will get three chapters uploaded. Persona 2: Your Innocent Sin will then have two chapters uploaded. However, the first chapters of both stories will be uploaded at the same time. From there the schedule fills out, rinse and repeat, we carry on with due process. Occasionally I may receive the urge to break pattern, depends entirely if I'm really into one of the stories at the time. Don't expect it to happen often, or at all. If it does, it's completely based on mood.

With that aside, welcome to Persona 3: Burn Your Dread Chapter One.

* * *

><p><em>Chapter One: Welcome to Tatsumi Port Island<em>

Once I dreamt I saw a butterfly, a brightening, golden yellow monarch hovering on my nose.

For the ticking seconds I forgot my worries of transferring; my abandoning anxiety regarding the orphanage and the current land I called my home was transformed to stunning entrancement of the marvelously alit Lepidoptera.

As the gentle creature roosted itself on the bridge of my nose, slowly scurrying to my eyes; I remained still, silent, unmoving, practically petrified in my bed. I did not want to disturb the serenity.

Collectedly a voice entered my thoughts. A masculine voice I believed to come from the butterfly.

It said:_ Time never waits._

_It delivers all equally to the same end. _

_You, who wish to safeguard the future, however limited it may be…_

_You will be given one year; go forth without falter, with your heart as your guide._

From then, I awoke in a disconcerted thrash, compulsively feeling my face for the iridescent insect.

Did I dream I saw a butterfly?

Or did I truly hear the foretelling words?

-_Minato Arisato_

**Persona 3: Burn Your Dread**

"What the hell do you mean I don't have the proper change for this transaction?" I exclaimed caustically at the idiot at the turn styles. "How can a prepaid card not have a proper balance? It's prepaid! I swiped it; I should be able to board the subway!"

"Sir, I'm sorry, but the machine is unable to process your card. You will have to pay the toll in cash."

"I just took a bus and ferry to arrive on this island, pal. Do you think I have hard cash to ride a line? Why do you think I was packed with this prepaid card?" I was threateningly waving my luggage around, unrealistically irritated.

I had left Hato Orphanage at two p.m, took a bus to the docks, managed to arrive an hour late. Missed the designated ferry to Tatsumi Port, had to wait another two hours for it to return. Caught it the second time around, two hour trip to Port Island. Realized, only when I got there, Ami-chan gave me the incorrect map, wondered lost in Iwatodai for two and half hours. Finally managed to sort myself out once the lay of the land was mine, but, of course, the train station to take me to the Gekkokan Dormitory is packed on all sides. Half the styles closed because of an electronic malfunction. So, all us assholes who had the audacity to catch a train had to sit, crunched up to gather like we were sharing a tin can for an apartment with a woolly mammoth as a roommate. As we hazily slogged along in a morose, depressive, agonizing dullness, my MP3 player told me I had spent an hour and a fucking half in a line at the train station.

The Thirteenth Hour was nipping at my heels and I for one could not bare to be stuck in a train car alone with a bunch of coffins on a voyage to a dorm that should have lasted a mere twenty minutes but instead became an escapade of an hour twenty. All because a stupid machine could not accept my specially prepared prepaid card! That one thing that has no right to go wrong today went wrong!

"Sir, I'm sorry, but if you do not have the necessary funds for the transaction, you will have to step out of line and allow the next person to go ahead. If you cannot provide the money, you cannot ride the train."

"Bullshit! Like hell, I'm going to just step out! It's eleven thirty! I've been meandering the whole day, pal!"

"Jesus Christ, kid! Piss off already and let the adults make their trains!" A disgruntled business chump yelled at me from a few people behind.

"Sir, if you do not step aside, security is going to have to remove you." The attendant, feigning innocence sternly told me with his best attempt at designated toughness.

I was gritting my teeth, ready to explode at him when a steady hand reached over my shoulder and swiped its owner's metro card through the incision.

"Huh?" I twisted my head, my blue hair whipping from in front of my eye.

"Problem solved, yes?" The man was tall; at least a foot taller than my five foot seven. His hair was jet black and wavy, the youthfulness of a twenty year old in his five o'clock shadow. He wore a simple hoop earring in his left ear.

"Thanks." I sincerely replied, shifting the turn style.

"Good deeds are what I do." He replied, slashing his card to proceed in time with me.

He was wearing fairly conventional attire that screamed business casual. Gray slacks with an iron pressed suit jacket to match atop a plainly crumbled button-up cotton shirt. No tie, open colored, and he had a pair of bourbon-colored aviators resting on the peak of his head. He could pass for a non-disgruntled business executive if it was not for the six foot, 2x, aluminum, attaché case he lugged like a prized guitar.

We boarded the train; the guy with the earring who graciously paid for my hunting tax sat himself across from me, both us on the correct scheduled line apparently.

"Where you heading, kid?" he asked, behooved to do so as he rested his attaché case on the bench.

Despite the annoyance I found at being called kid I decided to pursue an avenue of conversation with this guy. It was rather uncharacteristic of me, but he did save me having the arduous walk to my dorm address.

"Minatodai Dormitory…just transferred in to Gekkokan High, old man."

The man winced. "Old man, I'm twenty two, kid, what are you sixteen?"

I nodded yes, slinging my headphones on my shoulder.

"Wait, I get it. I'm twenty two and your sixteen, means I'm old and don't know shit and you're young and got the world figured out. Am I right?"

"Pretty much," I answered, honestly having the imbalanced apparatus called life soused.

"Still…old man…I had a few nicknames before but that's a first." He said to himself in his own ponderings.

"You have this aura about you." I added to explain my reasoning. "Like a pundit or something. You feel like an old man."

He scoffed, somewhat off-put. I do have that effect on people. Then again, people have told me I have the air of someone universally approachable, so perhaps it's a two way street.

He flicked his earring in habit at what I denote as an "ah-ha" epiphany, like what I said had fitted the corners in his jigsaw puzzle, and then he spoke seriously to me. "Well, if you have the world filed and sorted, let me ask you this, kid. You believe in gods?"

I laughed as he deadpan questioned me, amused more than I've ever been. "Who the hell are you, man?" I asked in between chuckles.

He grinned momentarily and told me as if he had recited the introduction precisely from a cue card. "My name's Naoya Todo. My friends call me Nao. You can call me whatever you want, kid. Old man, nut job, anything, everyone else has there pick."

I politely told him mine, actually enjoying this impromptu conversation. "Minato Arisato, and to answer the question, old man…I bow to no god,"

"Bow to no god, huh? That translate to you don't believe in them?" He asked, looking almost disappointed.

"Translates to a variety of things," I replied, an aggravated edge returning to my tone. "Means I don't fear them, means I don't pray to them, and it means I dislike those who blindly worship them."

Naoya slightly curled inward at the glare I launched at him to emphasize the last portion of my statement.

"I'm not like that, Minato." He replied, sounding sincere in using my actual name. "Trying to get to know you is all. Never know what fate has in store."

"I don't deal in fate either, pal." I was crunching my brow, the toxicity of my misanthropic jaundice bubbling in my chest. "I also do not care to acquaint myself with an old man who's out to get in my shorts."

I immediately left my seat with my bags, walking in an empowered momentum as he halfheartedly rose to go after me.

"Now, hold on a minute, kid! That's not what I—"

"Stay the hell away from me!" I shouted at him with the fullest vocal range my throat would allow.

The other late night passengers were startled at my outburst. They were intrigued enough by the "lovers" quarrel to become oblivious statues as I trekked my tired bones to the next car in the junction. The pervert did not dare to follow. Guess my tenor scared him stiff.

**Persona 3: Burn Your Dread**

I was among the dregs of exhausted in the new car. Two were asleep, the others barely able to stand. Me, I was holding the steel rod, drowning the outside with my music. The murmurs and platitudes of the manic did not interest me enough to care to subject my ears to their pleads of tenuous communication between one another. The same could be said about strolling in the streets or stepping among the students in the halls. The social animal of man was a beast I acted contemptuously to. The shrinks told me I was lashing out. My personality invented a defense mechanism to deflect any advances of human contact when my parents died ten years ago.

I'd buy that if psychiatrists weren't full of shit.

The fact of the matter is people inherently bugged me. Mostly because they are ungrateful; we spend the decent amount of the days of our lifespan complaining. We bitch and moan to anyone who can hear, whether it be God or a stranger on the street.

"What's the point?" I ask them metaphorically. "We're all going to die someday. That's an inevitable conclusion. So, what's the point of complaining about life? Relish in life while you have the chance, before you end up six feet in dirt."

The carps of vacuous sludge of humanity are capable of an even greater form of churlishness: teenagers. I grew up in an orphanage called Hato. I lived there for ten years, because no sensible parent wants to adopt the asocial, stoic recluse. The kids there, of various shapes and sizes, all had a common dominator I liked. They appreciated what they had. The bunch of us there lost our moms and dads, we accepted it. Life sucked and fucking spit in our eyes but we weren't dead. Teenagers, the intelligent bereft wastes, embellish the harshness of their reality with zero poise. They have parents, and those parents to them are the worst thing to governor them. Some are lucky to have one parent, or both parents who are separated. I give my soul to the devil in an intricate Faustian bargain just to see my parents again. I wouldn't even care if the stakes of the claim where my life forfeited to damnation if it meant I could really see them alive again. Teenagers are purely ungrateful to their parents, and they were my deplorable ilk.

I try not to complain in this demanding journey. I just keep the acrimonious attitude, filter the world with my headphones, and tell the pompous to put their heads further up their asses.

I was gazing to the blackness of the night, the tunnel a mysterious cavern of solitude, narrowly peaceful in the calmness which allowed me to relax my heated temperament after a tiresome day. Then the damn butterfly from my dream flashes in my mind. The monarch is flapping, an aching sore is bumping my brain, and my forehead feels like a brick was deposited in the nerves.

Shit…what is with that dream?

I grunted as my resistance to the pain faltered, yet the interrupting revile of my gray matter's workings was hushed. My subconscious must've wanted to remind me of a misgiving butterfly's diatribe of a daunting year at Tatsumi Port Island.

**Persona 3: Burn Your Dread**

_Welcome my son, welcome to the machine._

Midnight was closing in, ready to knit the seam when the electronic doors rushed opened at the platform. I was gingerly stepping free, tired, siphoning the last bits of my music from the MP3 while I still had the opportunity. It would be a dead silent navigation to Minatodai Dormitory.

_Where have you been? It's alright we know where you've been._

I had not noticed the train sleazebag exit his car, perhaps his next stop was further on the rail. It didn't matter if he did either way, as long as he kept himself away from me for the thirty second. Then his pestilence would be negated from my concern as I fished the proper street directions from my luggage.

_You've been in a pipeline, filling in time, provided with toys and Scouting for Boys._

The broadcasted woman was electronically announcing the last train out of the station to rally the enervated mass of two executives to meet their departure time or else they'd be sucking wind. If only they all realized they'd be waiting a paralyzed hour extra before they could cozy up to their whores and whiskey before a mattress.

_You bought a guitar to punish_—

Death to bring on a dying world; at the stroke of midnight the Thirteenth Hour evacuated the electricity. The lights died, the arrival numbers died, all forms of illuminations were killed. The computers crackled black, my MP3 halted usage, and even the train's automated doors were stuck frozen in the mechanical shutting. Then, the blood seeped, down the walls, the face of the clock, beneath the tiles. Blood, crimson red, fresh, liquidly, and un-congealing poured methodically free from slits, portals, pores, creases, holes, buckled stone. The ever-fresh, continuously produced, un-oxidized element was the brightest sheen in the called shroud of darkness. The tint of green encumbering the cloud lines projected a sundered hue. The moon was a full circle, bitterly yellow, sickly lunar. The sky line's king was bathing me in the regime of moonlight. Green, yellow, and red mixed around the atmosphere to cause the bowels of this blue haired boy to quake.

At least, they used to. I remained stoic, prolonged in absorbing the reclusive smog that I breathed at the Thirteenth Hour. The fellow passengers, I paid no mind, they were all ready ramrod and prostrated in the sleek, oak coffins. They were in a slumber. It happens all the time to anyone but me.

I don't understand it. I've experienced it for as long as I can remember, probably since I was six on the bridge that night. Those people who are not me, sealed shut in the coffins. You cannot open them, they are to remain undisturbed. The world is dead as I described, yet alive, because it bleeds and I'm sure things bump in the night. It is an additional hour that starts and ends at midnight. A mysterious, temporal fold that I've have never been capable of cracking, simply put I've never bothered to explore more than I already had. The few things I noted are like the effects of an EMP. The Thirteenth Hour is a pulse, killing electronics until the hour long duration is concluded. Then things pop right back on as if they were never off. People don't remember the Thirteenth Hour, probably due to the fact they don't really experience it.

Normally, I sleep through the hour. It actually counts towards my body's internal schedule which is the biggest hacking of reality I've ever seen since those alleged rumors and reports of a city out in a back-country-who-gives-a-damn named Mikage-cho. Where a tenured professor of theoretical physics called Nicolai testified to the developing a device that could actually rearrange matter called the DEVA System. The company he was contracted to was held responsible for the apparent havoc caused by these experiments, but I couldn't find exact reports and depositions. Government agencies, security companies, all-around shady folks know how to bury the dirt delicately to prevent a can of worms from accidentally causing a circus.

I stood forbearing, sighing in an unfazed heap as the blood dripped dripped.

I proceeded to expel myself with caution, hearing a vague rumbling like a shuffling shoe. I had heard these noises on occasion during the expeditions in the Thirteenth Hour. I speculate this enigmatic plane I coined the Thirteenth Hour has to harbor and house a form of malevolent creatures. The place is foreboding, evil, a curtain on the focal point of the full moon lunar phase. The phase of the cycle said to induce lunatic and homicidal behavior. An untrustworthy place I suspect has untrustworthy creatures. I've never stuck around in an open place long enough to prove my theory, but my suspicious I think are adequately founded in logic and the potential proof I came across.

A rare instance has occurred where I swore I documented empirically another person, spryly wondering the Thirteenth Hour. It was an isolated incident; however, and the next day I saw his face on the news. Apparently the boy spontaneously suffered from the all-the-rage disorder, not-subtly named Apathy Syndrome. He woke up demonstrating symptoms, expression-less as all the Apathy Syndrome dolls are. The disorder's effects are like a placated version of Freud's death drive concept according to famous, licensed, award-winning psychologist hired by the state to elixir the shit out of this problem because of how widespread it is. Apathy Syndrome is titular, the patient experiencing it express life inhibiting apathy. They are incapacitated by the lethargy, unable to participate, unable to articulate. They truly become almost soulless dolls, husks housing a beating heart that would stop at the possessor's command if it wasn't biologically maintained.

I eased my way through the interfering obstruction I called Coffinites. I stepped in a puddle of blood in the clamber, my eyes glued to the insufficient directions. Nothing today has gone my way.

I considered a paranoia creeping at my spine when I suggested to myself I was being followed. The Thirteenth Hour was eerie, but it also was sound depraved. Anxiety was tickling my throat as I heard distant thumps, like a drop of weight on payment.

I was thirty minutes out of the station and into the Thirteenth Hour. All alone in dead air, thinking I was being tailed. Tailed by who? Tailed by what? I don't know. I couldn't guess if I had to. I was attentive, heedful of self-consciousness when I explored the Thirteenth Hour. I never spent more than a half an hour on the streets out of a secluded shelter. I did not want to test to see if the speculative citizens grew weary at their climaxing half of the total duration.

I carried on my path, the sidewalk's cobble clattering on my individual steps of apprehension. The butterfly dream was leisurely slicing through my receded thoughts. Dreams have bugged me, bothered me for years. Since the accident, I had a recurring dream of a blonde girl. She's fit, beautiful, practically immaculate anatomically. She's always wearing these turbine-like headphones. Her eyes are this tender blue, brilliantly heavy in contrast to the dun blue of mine. She wore this ribbon near her clavicle at the base of her gullet. I can't discern the rest of her or what she does, or why I dream about her, but I have dreamt about her on and off these past ten years after the loss of my parents. The butterfly must be deciding to come into rotation, partnered up with the unknown blonde.

My pace was quickening now. My heart was pounding in time with my calves and feet. My mind was in a race, deciphering the directions, the butterfly, the blood staining my shoes, the echo of a crumbling stone, the ripple of the wind, the hiss of the noiselessness in dying nothingness, the terrify baring of the beguile moon, the massive ecliptic eye scoping down at me. Did I make the correct turn, did I cross the right street, where am I going, how much longer is it, I lost track, my watch is dead, I've never been in this deep in the field before.

Then my steps calmed, my panicked quelled with avail of sanctuary. The in-doors of the brown-painted dormitory was the protection I needed, the sounds I heard gone, the struggling grizzle of my own heart was dissipating with the churning clouds of the Thirteenth Hours' ocean of darkness. I was where I needed to be, standing on the porch of Minatodai Dorm. My concern was pointless paranoia as I thought. It was unlike me to react as such in my exclusive element, to doubt my capabilities. Reminiscing on the matters of Apathy Syndrome, and unrecognized residents of the Thirteenth Hour, add the Train Pervert and his words; I must have spooked myself. The loudness of my own thoughts and their bearing on my own actions was a real strict urgency.

Thus to put an end to the night in a safe haven where I was to now call home, I opened the door in a rapid gesture of entrance.

**Persona 3: Burn Your Dread**

I had escaped the moon's gaze, my incidental fear, and the potential hazards of the Thirteenth Hour to the interior design of a common area of a dormitory built alongside a pair of rest rooms and check-in desk. The lobby was an astute accumulation of all the necessities. TV Lounge with a loveseat, sofa, lounge chair, and coffee table set. Secretariat desk with the men and women's restrooms a few feet down, a bulletin board of activities, assignments, announcements, pamphlets, PSAS, and information on the high school of the Gekkokan High pinned on the cork face hung besides the washrooms. A row of barstools at the dry bar countertop, no doubt the kitchen in the back, dining room table with several chairs in the front. An emergency exit to the back alley besides, with the obvious sign above the siding, as well as guarded by a security camera. A pair of stairs, further down the hall to the actual dormitory component of the large building. And lastly, corner-angled, glass-set, wooden partitions to disillusion the members and visitors of their silly-headed ideas that this garden-level floor was actually the housing for the most integral parts of the business, domicile, and domestic interactions of a student's lifestyle without distinctive walls and separation.

I was alone; of course, the Thirteenth Hour as far as I could tell remained in effect. The distinctive green hue utterly non-discreet in the light refractions was un-missible. I was in-doors at least, the worries of a stalker gone hopefully soon to be with the Thirteenth Hour.

I lowered my bag to the carpet, reprieving the hunching weight on my shoulder as I slid off my headphones, letting them dangle on my lapels. I was safely at my destination, able to relax for the moment.

"You're late. I've been waiting a long time for you."

The voice of a child, a boy, eerily low pitched hit my ear. I shot my head to the admissions desk and there the kid was. In black and white striped pajamas he was lounging with his pale skinned arms under his jagged chin. His hair was short, shaggy, black, and his eyes were a confidential blue.

I missed a breath, partially suffocating at the prospect. This kid startled me, unnerved me. He shouldn't be here. How can he be here? It's the Thirteenth Hour. He should be a Coffinite, unless he's one of the few who can travel. Forgetting that, why would a dormitory hire a kid knee-high to an office chair for admissions?

I was about to question him, his peaked face brimming his bold eyes through the criss-crossing shadows of the Thirteenth Hour induced Minatodai.

I was sweating profusely, disconcerted, ready to ask what the hell was going when he snapped his fingers in a callous rub.

"Now if you want to proceed," He vanished from the desk's counter, now he was standing directly in front of me. "Please sign your name there."

"Huh?" I eagerly backed a step at his ghostly teleportation, and then I looked at the quill pen and red ledger he indicated with his sweeping palm, barely big enough to hold a golf ball.

"It's a contract. Don't worry; all it says is that you'll accept full responsibility for your actions. You know, the usual stuff."

What the hell is happening? The thin folder opened itself with the twitch of the kid's thumb.

I relaxed my heart for the second time from an adrenaline shot. Strangely I was dis-alarmed. The kid's actions, tone of voice was disengaging my securities. His close quarter's introduction allowed me to observe the individual strain of his muscles as he annunciated his preplanned welcoming speech. His appearance reminded me of what I looked like at his age. A frail boy, open to conversation, inviting in interactions, harmless in the field of words and fists to those who tried to connect with him.

He was supernatural. He appeared in a blink, magically presented me a contract I could barely decipher the scrawling on. Still I drew the pen from the ink well, the acute, confidential stare of wonder observed the precise strokes. I wrote efficiently, prepared to do as such in my career choice.

Why I signed is a question I cannot answer. I was compelled to do so. Like my soul was quivering, beckoning me to sign. The presence of the young boy, his encouraging stance, my past remembrance, the lack of want to disappoint fueled the exact measurements of the pen. I was concise, hastened. Thinking perhaps the tumultuous cries of my soul would be quenched once I drew my signature. The butterfly was coming in abreast, circling, carving annals in my cerebral cortex. The word's precognitively phrased to embed my skull. The agony was a screaming division in my head, un-displayed in facial tics. So, I signed with intensity, enforcing my name as a proclamation: I had arrived and I was ready to face the precarious year the golden monarch intended for me to comprehend as treacherous.

**Minato Arisato**

"There." He took the folded ledger from my hand and raised it to his forehead like a psychic trying to fool his audience.

"No one can escape time; it delivers us all to the same end." He was receding to the encapsulating darkness of the lounge, silhouetting his elated demeanor. "You can't plug your ears and cover your eyes." The signed contract faded from existence in his flapping fingers.

I could feel a sensation; he was truly blending to the shadows of the room. The recesses absent of light he was living towards, leaning in. His eyes, his bold eyes, glowed a magnificent shine in the dark at me. His hand, the stripes of his pajamas furrowing in the stressful tug, extended at me, wanting to shake, agree, clamp, snatch, or hold.

I was at the door handle, brushing sweat, filing the events in the correct cabinets in my thoughts. Wishing the day had made sense, wanting to justify my actions, my encounters, but nothing made sense. The day was shot to hell, unsalvageable. My world was inverted a new degree that day and it was not going to torque itself back around.

"And so it begins, Minato Arisato."

The child's farewell words, of the similar chilling pitch, left me in awe as he literally was assimilated to the blackened ambience. As brilliantly he greeted, in a flash he absconded. I was alone at last, pondering the wild, phantasmagoric apparition.

The contract was tangible however. The pen was real. It perturbed my fingers as I wrote. This….meeting…really happened. I signed a contract holding me liable for my actions. The logical side of me wanted to say, it was all part of the welcome. The experienced, grizzled side in turn replied: that is impossible.

You are crazy, Minato Arisato.

That's the answer. When you were thrown from the impact during the car crash, you damaged your brain. That's it. That is exactly what the problem is. That night ruined you in more ways than one. It took the people who loved you incredibly and it took your sanity after the fact. Now you are doomed to be a whack job, interpreting the delusions of grandeur which episodically dictate your calendar year.

Jesus Christ, I am insane.

There's the answer. There's the haunting truth the persistence of the butterfly insists upon. You, Minato Arisato, are going to have a helluva a year dealing with your mental impairment and insufficiencies, because you are fucking screw loose. You belong in a sanitarium, scribbling pictures of deranged eyes and conspiracy theories on the padded walls, not in the hometown where the worst thing happened to you, taking the best thing that happened to you in the trade off.

This day was appalling. Technically I was not done with it until the ending stroke of the Thirteenth Hour, but I ruled on with the jury deliberating immediately: This day was terrible.

And then the prolonged reacquainting of Tatsumi Port Island grew worse.

"Who's there?" The alerted female voice rang in the blackness directed at the sullen me waiting at her door-mate

Hot pink vest, slim legs, and brunette locks was standing at five foot three a ways from the bathrooms. She was nervous, clear by the profuse perspiration dotting her brow. She wasn't a Coffinite either. Must have just stepped down from the stairs and waltzed to gawk at the new kid talking to himself. That is if she isn't a hallucination too.

I tried to propose the situation to her, but she reared her muscles. She was hyperventilating, increasingly unnerved like I was seconds ago. Except in her case of trepidation, she was packing heat. A leather holster was strapped on her exposed thigh with an inviting grip of what I assumed was a .32 caliber pistol. She was reaching for the handle, ready to go full-fledge desperado on my ass.

I hope this is not real, because dodging bullets is not in my skill set.

I was ready to call out in a shriek to tell her not to shoot I was a human when a dignified woman's protest rallied through the false hallway Pink Sweater Jacket was panting in. "Takeba, wait!"

"Takeba" gasped in her spasm quick-draw, jerking her hand away in time to give herself whiplash.

I presumed right when I heard dignified. A scarlet maiden, formally dressed and exotically pampered, strolled casually in. Her long boots clicked, her uniform skirt rustled. She was utterly composed in her stride, exuding confidence, confidence which injected composure into "Takeba."

Funny thing is, she too had a holster on her waistband. The front facing outward from her inner thigh, a gaudy, tanned hide, slinging the same model pistol. As she came closer in the sick yellow moonlight, I saw the blood red bands on both of the girls' left arms, with the abbreviating letters of "S.E.E.S."

What are they…Nazis? Wait, why the hell was I hallucinating schoolgirl Nazis after a boy in striped pajamas?

"Okay!" I exclaimed assertively. "What the—"

—_Your_ _ma, and you didn't like school, and you know you're nobody's fool,_

My headphones had come back online, blasting the high-amped, processed synthesizers to the room. The Thirteenth Hour was concluded, electricity was restored to all, and "Takeba's" relief was a sight-for-sore-eyes as she was awash in fluorescence.

"_So welcome to the machine._" I sang deftly in tune, ascertaining the awkardness.

Redhead and "Takeba" where smiling consolation between another while they gathered to meet-and-greet the new arrival.

"I didn't think you'd arrive so late." The dignified Redhead said. "My name is Mitsuru Kirijo. I'm one of the students who live in this dorm."

"Yeah, well, traffic is a nightmare especially when you're lost in Iwatodai." I began to think these two were real, two real-life, derivative Nazis as spokeswoman and attendees of Gekkokan High School. They also are aware of the Thirteenth Hour, which is shady by my personal index.

"Who's he?" Pink Sweater Jacket asked, confused at my figure as if she hadn't wanted to shoot at it.

"Minato Arisato." I replied curtly.

"He's a transfer student." Mitsuru said. "It was a last minute decision to assign him here. He'll eventually be moved to a room in the boys' dorm."

"Is it okay for him to be here?" Pink Sweater Jacket hurriedly asked in an anxious hiss.

"What? Did those clowns at administration assign me to the girls' dorm?"

Mitsuru chortled lightly. "Do not be silly. You are in the correct dormitory, unlike the other buildings, this one's co-ed. It's not your typical dorm though. I'll explain it to you later when I get a chance."

I shrugged in response. Co-ed dormitories in high school seem unheard of, but what do I know. I'm just a recently self-diagnosed schizophrenic.

"While its quiz hour." I pointed my finger at Pink Sweater Jacket. "Who is she and why the hell does she have a gun?"

I decided to be blunt on the matter to test to see if my brain wasn't playing tricks.

"This is Yukari Takeba. She'll be a junior this spring, like you. I, of course, am a senior."

Yukari's probably my age range then. Mitsuru's a year older, barely I suppose.

"Hey…" Yukari playfully waved, quieted.

"Hi." I replied in courtesy. "Gun, answers,"

"Huh?" Yukari was startled as if she didn't notice I noticed. "Um, well, it's sorta like a hobby…"

That sounded like a lie, on account of the hesitation and pondering.

"Well, not a hobby, but…"

Changing the story in progress, yep, this Nazi's lying. I have all I need.

"You know how it is these days." Mitsuru offered to cover her compatriot, without delay or falter in her words. "It's for self-defense. It's not a real gun, of course. I too wear one as you can see. Any other questions, Arisato-san,"

That is a passable excuse, but not a tenable argument. I'll let it slide; her stellar poker face deserved the belief. "No thanks."

Her painted lips were at the ready to speak and I was tired of the conversation since the start of it. "No offense, Mitsuru-senpai, it's after midnight and I've had the day from hell."

Added my recalcitrant temperament was on the rise. I did not want the wrath of a senior dormmate on my case for refusing to be mindful of my manners.

"Yes, it is getting late, so you should get some rest. Your room is on the second floor, at the end of the hallway. Your things should already be there."

Glad Ami-chan's had the foresight to overnight the essentials. All I was lugging was clothes and paperbacks.

"Gotcha, good night ladies,"

I went to find my room, breaching the miniature wall of feminine, when Yukari called to me.

"Oh, I'll show you the way."

I wanted to decline the offer, tell her I wanted to be alone. Her company would annoy, but I wanted to practice my restraint. She was a doormmate likewise, one in my grade, I didn't want to step-on-her-toes in our first exchange. I'd cast her away at a better opportunity.

"Follow me." She said in return to my nod, leading me by the hand.

**Persona 3: Burn Your Dread**

The second floor was as bland and drab as the first. The place was far from lavishly garish. The hot pink on Yukari's sweater was gleaming in the absences of mild color.

"This is it." She announced at the wooden doorway. "Pretty easy to remember, huh, since it's right at the end of the hall."

"I'd think you'd have to be oblivious to forget where you stay." I hissed, sore and tired.

"Oh yeah, make sure you don't lose your key, or you'll never hear the end of it?"

She must have not heard the harshness in my whisper.

"So, any questions," She plainly asked.

"Does that kid live here too?" I asked, merely wanting to confirm the divergence of reality and hallucination.

"What kid?" She frowned. "What are you talking about?"

I snickered at her nose-wrinkling. Clearly, she didn't seem to know what I was talking about at all.

"C'mon, it's not funny."

"Whatever." I replied, the momentary joy non-repeating.

I pulled my hand from my pocket to turn the doorknob, my stance implying my thanks and goodbye, but she apparently had questions for me.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Shit, why not?" I mumbled, returning my hand to its proper, pants pocket.

That one she heard.

"On your way here from the station, was everything okay?"

I held my tongue to contemplate. She was insinuating my answer with the question. The eminence of the Thirteenth Hour assured the fact nothing was okay, but she all ready knew that. She experienced the Thirteenth Hour. She was ready to accost me right before reality kicked back in. This girl was sketchy. Mitsuru Kirijo was in the same boat. The Kirijo Group is well-known for their corporate monolith and monumental reach including Tatsumi Port Island. I didn't trust either of them, so I lied to guard my integrity.

"Yeah," I answered, dragging my eyelids.

She looked almost disappointed. She was not as adept at confirming her queries as I was. "I see...never mind, then."

"I'm going to bed now." I reached for the door, she was walking away in dismay.

"Well, I better get going to." She said, already leaving.

The hinges creaked, I was hauling through when she shouted from down the hallway. "I'm sure you still have other questions, but let's save them for later, okay?"

"Just go away…" I thought.

"I'm exhausted." I said.

"Good night." She was polite to my rudeness. Either her tolerance for assholes was high or she was deaf.

I slammed the door, chucked my baggage on the floor, and threw my weight on the bed. My other shipped boxes were on the desk. My laundered Gekkokan High uniform was hanging in the ajar closet. I was set for orientation day. I'd unpack after classes. For now, tonight, I wanted rest. Tomorrow, I'd have to go forth without falter, because I had a mother of a year in store.

**Persona 3: Burn Your Dread**

* * *

><p>Alright, first chapter out of the park and I'm already disappointed with myself. Honestly, I have to make the statement if Persona 3 was an actual book and not a game, people would never make it passed the first chapter aka the first twenty minutes of the game. Why? Because weird, unexplained shit happens without context. It's only in JRPG that storytelling like this can actually occur correctly. I don't think in any other media form this tangent works: a kid getting off a train to an EMP blackout with a ominous yellow Full Moon looming overhead, with everybody contained in coffins, as well as puddles of blood on the floor, all the while he is completely comfortable with the weirdness, then arrives at his dorm, where he meets a ghostly child who can either teleport or the animation budget sucked, magically conjured a contract which he for some reasons signs, and then the boy takes the contract, says something foreboding, and vanishing into the darkness. All the while the MC is just like DUR, I have no emotions. I'd really like to see an honest-to-God, master of his craft, best-selling author tackling the verbatim nature of that and try to deliver it in a cohesive, logical presentation, with a realistic point of view, that everybody who decides to read it can actually get around without feeling utterly lost or taking out of the experience.<p>

So, if this introduction sucks, well, I blame the source material. I don't think the introduction translate well enough to text. Justification of the MC is honestly impossible in my opinion. If you guys have ever played the game Xenogears, the introduction to that is similar to Persona 3's in that it starts off with a zero-context event being shown to you the player. The difference is in Xenogears the event has no relevance or bearing on the actually introduction afterwards until way later on in the game itself. The reason that it is effective in that game's implementation is because it is an unexplained, pivotal event in the plotline that occurs at the beginning that you are not meant to have context for, that you are also supposed to keep in mind because it will have context and relevance later on. I mean, why else would they put it there. You can translate that to a novel. Novel's and television use that same format all the time. In Persona 3's case, the introduction is just not suited to having no-context in written form even if it's all going to be given in two chapters' time.

Wow, that was long-winded. Sorry, but I actually want to talk about the writing process more in the author notes than just bitching and moaning like I did in P: BYTM. Well, this chapter was a long introduction, longer than I usually write for introductions. Chapter 2 and 3 will probably be as long or longer because I wanted to get through the beginning hours, like from the introduction to the Tartarus tutorial, early on in the novelization. The things is a fifty chapter beasts and I'm doing all the Social Links plus other rigmarole. I gotta give myself a quick call to action.

In this opening chapter I've also given you Minato's personality. He's an asocial asshole. So, I'm kind of taking the ground of Squall here with his character, but to be frank, I never understood why people took such umbrage to contemptible main-characters, because half the time the purpose of making these characters assholes is to grant them a character arc. Plus I don't think Minato in this story is like on the levels of a huge prick. He just dislikes people but people are always apt to approach him. The ol' Fool Arcana is a real pain in the ass. He's also somewhat modeled off of hardboiled detectives. He's cynical, not afraid to be a heel, says what he wants, though in that aspect he is more restrained because he recognizes the consequences of his words. He is after all a teenager, the very thing he hates, which is certainly not foreshadowing to his inevitable interactions in those beautiful things called Social Links. No sir, not foreshadowing at all.

We've also seen the first appearance of Naoya, and had a brief mention of the DEVA System incident. It is an effect on reality like the Dark Hour, though I admit its mention is more fanservice than anything. Naoya; however, is not fanservice. You probably guessed it, but his being there right behind Minato was not a coincidence. His seeking of conversation was not just polite banter. There is a reason for his inclusion. We will see partly why next chapter and see fully why in Chapter 3 hopefully. I also replaced Burn My Dread with Pink Floyd's Welcome to the Machine, cause why not. Well, there is a reason. Minato's music will be playing during moments. Not in Tartarus until a specific point, because you know EMP. Some songs will be real; some will be from in-game. Don't worry, Mass Destruction, Deep Breath Deep Breath, Wiping All Out, and Burn My Dread will make appearances. I've got the vapors for some Mass Destruction. The idea of burning, aka abolishing, one's dread is of course going to be a theme of the story as it is, hence the title. The same way finding your true self was the theme of Be Your True Mind.

Kay, so with this chapter uploaded, the dual project has officially begun! For reals, so now the schedule will take effect in the motions. Meaning, the next upload on the line is the second chapter of Persona 2: Your Innocent Sin. Alright! Then after that two chapters of Burn Your Dread. Awesome! Then, after that the full ratio of the schedule becomes the reality, and the order goes two chapters for P2 and three chapters for P3. Hopefully I can at least get the initial 5 done (Ch1 & 2 of P2: YIS and Ch1, 2, & 3 for P3: BYD) before Christmas. I make no promises. I also hope deeply these projects don't take, you know, three years, but that's all dependent on me.

Either way, I hope you enjoyed this chapter of Persona 3: Burn Your Dread and I'll see you next time for Chapter 2: Per-so-na.


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